Absolution
by whirlyite
Summary: Better late than never. My contribution for the 100th Anniversary of the Armistice (or my early contribution for the 101st Anniversary of the Armistice).


**Absolution**

"Absolution is the most powerful form of forgiveness." – Emily Thorne

_11 November 1920_

_The strangest sounds were coming from the kitchen. Peter stepped out of the cupboard-sized room he shared with his baby sister and crept as close as he could get without being detected. He saw his Da slumped at the kitchen table, his shoulders heaving, his face buried in his hands. Deeply disturbed by the sight of his father weeping, Peter instinctively ran over to comfort him._

"_Da! What's wrong, Da? Why are ya cryin'?"_

_The next instant he found himself lying sideways on the floor with his back jammed awkwardly up beneath the cabinetry, his face stinging and already swelling. Sudden tears blurred his vision and his ears rang in a loud, persistent roar. He felt rather than heard his mother's furious voice as she bolted into the kitchen from the lounge._

"_Harry! My God, man! What are ya doin' – 'e's only five years old! Oh Peter, Peter, my little luv, come with me."_

_Adele Perkins Newkirk frantically gathered her oldest child up in her arms. Too stunned to utter any sound, Peter wrapped his arms tightly about his mum as she pulled him close. She gently cradled his head onto her shoulder, cooing softly to him as she left the kitchen._

9 November 1953

The train hitched and lurched sharply, causing him to strike his temple against the thick glass of the carriage compartment's external door. He shook his head and cursed as he gingerly rubbed the spot that had hit the window. He didn't remember lulling off to sleep, but he obviously had.

_Damn! Where on earth did __that__ come from?_

Considering the events of the past few days, Peter Newkirk honestly thought he had finally succeeded in laying the ghost of his father to rest. Although, for the exact same reason, he really should not have been surprised that those old memories resurfaced in just such a dream.

He was travelling back home to Newbury from London, where he had been deeply honored to march in this year's Remembrance Day ceremonies. 1953's observance marked two special milestones; namely, the thirty-fifth anniversary of the Armistice and the first time the now fully-invested Queen Elizabeth II led the nation in the annual National Act of Remembrance commemorating the Honored Dead.

A special reception had been given at the American Embassy that evening and General Hogan had made sure that his senior staff were invited. It was there Peter met the Brigadier, a definite type in his view; the larger-than-life career Army officer with the typical "how's the stew, soldier?" mentality, aged early to mid-sixties and more than likely a veteran of the Great War who segued into an upper-echelon desk job for the following world war. For the life of him, he could not recall the Brigadier's name. That was understandable though, seeing as how their subsequent conversation had rocked him to his very core.

The reception was a typical bureaucratic soiree, cocktails and light refreshments coupled for the most part with polite, boring conversation. British and American military personnel mingled amongst the full complement of diplomats and politicians. General Hogan proved a particularly popular subject for those curious to meet the commander of USAFE SAC Operations.

Peter felt extremely out of place at such an affair and tried to keep his head down as much as possible; that is, until the Brigadier approached the General requesting to meet his USAFE operations personnel. General Hogan obligingly took the Brigadier down the short line of his staff, introducing Peter at the end with the words, "And last but by no means least, Brigadier, this is my right-hand man, Air Attaché Flight Lieutenant Peter Newkirk."

Peter snapped to attention and saluted.

The Brigadier returned his salute and then leaned in close, eyes sharpened with interest. "Stand to ease, son. Newkirk, you say?"

"Yes, sir," Peter replied as he came to ease.

"By any chance, did your father fight at the Somme with the Royal Fusiliers?"

"Uh, yes, yes, he did, sir," he answered warily.

"Was your father's name Harry?"

"Y-yes, sir." He had bypassed wary nervousness and gone straight to borderline panic.

"By Jove, I thought so! You remind me very much of him."

"I do, sir?"

"I knew your father! We fought together at the Somme!" The Brigadier looked Peter directly in the eye and clapped a beefy hand on his back as he continued, "Bravest man I've ever known. What became of him, son?"

_What became of him?_ Peter swallowed hard as he felt his stomach plummeting to his feet, trying to forestall a complete loss of composure. _I can't tell him the truth!_

He glanced over the Brigadier's shoulder and saw General Hogan giving a nearly imperceptible, supportive nod, which helped to settled him down a little.

He finally gathered the courage to answer and said, "He…died, sir. Back in 1944."

"I'm genuinely sorry to hear that, lad. Casualty of the bombings?" inquired the Brigadier.

"Yes, yes, sir, you could say that…," he stammered. _It COULD be the truth, couldn't it?_

The Brigadier carried on unperturbed, "Isn't this a happy coincidence! Harry Newkirk's son! Your father was so proud of you. You had just taken your first steps right before he mustered in. He had a dog-eared photograph of you in your mother's arms; he always kept it in his breast pocket where he could pull it out at the drop of a hat for anyone to see."

Peter lost the battle to keep calm and his vision suddenly blurred. He ducked his head a bit, trying to control his breathing as he struggled to absorb what the Brigadier had just said. He was so rattled he lapsed back into full-on East End, "I…I beg yer pardon, sir. What you've just said 'as…'as gotten me a bit emotional. No one's…ever told me this about me Da."

"Understandable, son, understandable. Your father loved you. I'm sure you miss him dreadfully."

He managed to recover enough to get out a convincing, "Y-yes, sir, thank you, sir."

At a complete loss as to how to proceed, he came to attention and saluted again.

The Brigadier returned his salute and then nodded genially at General Hogan before he moved off into the crowd. Peter turned away, utterly gobsmacked that the Brigadier had felt compelled to reveal such a deeply personal thing to him at first meeting.

General Hogan laid a steadying hand on his shoulder. Peter hung his head, completely embarrassed at his lapse of decorum in the Brigadier's presence.

"I – I'm sorry, General. I lost me composure completely."

"Don't worry about it. I'd say you had more than enough reason." The General glanced over at the Brigadier and said sotto voce, "I don't think he even noticed."

"Yes, sir, thank you, sir…," he trailed off, embarrassed yet again. General Hogan took his cue from his Air Attaché's silence.

"I'm sure you'd like to be alone right about now, so I think I'll go and see what the food and drink situation is. Just come see me before you leave for quarters, all right?"

Peter smiled in genuine relief at his commanding officer, "Thanks, sir. I'll be along directly."

The General nodded and turned to make his way across the crowded room.

Peter quickly made his escape out of the Embassy building and he stood upon the portico for a long moment, gazing out over Grosvenor Square. The day had been overcast and rainy; fog had already begun to envelope the city. He took a deep draught of the damp, cold night air, snugged his coat collar up about his neck, and began walking. He knew exactly where he needed to be if he was to even have a slim hope of processing the turbulent emotions roiling within.

It didn't take him long to cover the roughly two-mile walk from Mayfair to Whitehall. He glanced up to spot the Cenotaph in the near distance, looming majestically through the thickening shroud of fog. It stood as a silent sentinel in eternal mourning, keeping watch over the darkness of the murky night. The floodlights illuminating each side of the monument suffused the mist with an otherworldly glow.

The streets approaching the Cenotaph were still blocked-off and impassible to vehicle traffic, as the area surrounding the base of the monument was completely covered several layers deep with the scores of commemorative wreaths laid earlier that day. He picked his way carefully about the mounds of wreaths, mindful not to accidentally tread on any of them.

He paused near the foot of the Cenotaph and stooped down to try to make out a few of the cards on the wreaths. "Never Forgotten" and "Lest We Forget" seemed to be the most common expressions. More than a few of the personal sentiments were heartbreakingly poignant. He sighed heavily as he straightened and glanced about. There were a few other pilgrims in the vicinity; each one alone with their equally solitary grief. The eerie scene coupled with the dank, dismal weather perfectly mirrored his mood.

He felt completely and utterly numb and found it impossible to equate what the Brigadier had told him with the father that he knew. How could a man supposedly so proud of his infant son come home and beat him for no reason? It just made no sense! It made no sense at all! Oh, if only he could take some small bit of muted joy in the news the Brigadier had so unexpectedly delivered!

He looked up at the Cenotaph and began speaking quietly, as if to himself.

"Da, I don't know if you can 'ear me or not. I met a man who said 'e he knew you back in the Great War. 'e said you were the bravest man 'e ever met. 'e also said that you always showed everyone a snap of mum 'oldin' me when I was a babe and that you were so proud of me."

He shook his head.

"Proud of me, Da? _You_ were proud of _me_? It doesn't make sense. I just don't understand. This man said that you loved me and mum. 'ow can that be? Please make me understand! I thought I did, but what I've 'eard tonight has me completely muddled."

When he got a bit older, his mum had attempted to explain why from that point on his Da treated his son like his very own personal punchbag. Cor, he could hear her voice as if it were only yesterday! She had sat him down at the very same kitchen table and poured each of them a cuppa before she began.

"Peter luv, yer Da doesn't mean to 'urt ya…"

"You coulda fooled me! "he snarled. "'ave ya seen the marks 'e leaves?"

Adele bowed her head sadly and reached to take her son's hand. "Please 'ear me out, Peter. Yer Da saw things in the war what changed him. He's not the man I married. 'e's angry all the time, son. The day 'e first hit ya, 'e had just come from marchin' in the Armistice Day parade. T'was the day they brought the Unknown Warrior to rest at Westminster. Yer Da came 'ome, sat down in the very chair yer sittin' in now and wept as if 'is heart were breakin'."

At her words, he leapt out of the chair as if it were in flames and ran out of the flat. Mother and son never spoke of it again. She never condoned or ignored her husband's abysmal behavior toward his eldest child, bless her. She just wanted her son to understand, if it was at all possible, that he had done nothing in the world to deserve it.

It was a concept he was never able to grasp until he was well into adulthood. He sighed and gazed heavenward.

_Mum said Da changed. Even Schultzie said the war changed men for the worse. Da, Schultzie said you weren't a coward. And 'e didn't even know you!_

Peter never forgot the night he spent in the cooler with the German guard, nor his words of counsel to him on the day he learned of his father's suicide. He could hear Schultz' voice ringing in his mind as clearly as if he were right there beside him: _What I am saying is, that whatever your Vater endured changed him, as it changed my friend. War changes men against their will._

War changes men against their will. Against their will. _Da didn't want to be the man he ended up being. He had no choice. He simply couldn't cope with what he went through!_

The precise timing of his father's suicide abruptly pulled him out of that memory and struck him as certain as a physical blow. His knees buckled and he sank down onto the wet pavement.

_Bloody hell, he killed himself on 11 November 1944! He killed himself on Armistice Day!_

Why had he not realized that before now? Because he had been imprisoned in Stalag 13 at the time? Or was it because he simply did not want to think about it? Or had he known, but had been unable to admit to himself the horrific pain signified by that date?

He couldn't help losing his composure at that stunning realization. Thankfully, by now he was the only one still before the Cenotaph. He drew his knees up to his chest, lowered his head down onto them, and quietly wept.

Time passed, how much he didn't know. He had just closed his eyes in exhaustion and started violently when someone laid a hand on his shoulder. He assumed it was a bobby rousting him and quickly made his excuses.

"Wha'? Oh, uh,…I'll move along, officer."

"There's no need for that, Peter", answered a familiar voice.

"Oh, General!" He quickly stood up and tried to tidy himself up before he saluted. "Sorry, sir. I lost track of time." He cocked his head to the side and asked, "How'd you know I'd be 'ere?"

The General looked him straight in the eyes as he said, "I couldn't imagine any other place you'd be after what happened at the reception."

Peter nodded sadly.

"Come on! Let's get you back to your quarters." The General gently nudged him towards his waiting staff car. They climbed in and the driver took off.

General Hogan waited a beat or two before he turned to face Peter, "I can't begin to imagine how you must feel after tonight. Don't dwell on what could have been because it will eat you up inside. Be happy that you now know for sure that there was a time in your father's life when he loved you the way he should have. Be content with the thought that he would have been the kind of father you deserved if it hadn't been for the war. And always, always be proud that you're the kind of father your sons deserve."

The General paused to let his words sink in and added, "The Brigadier tracked me down after you left. He asked me if you would agree to meet with him at a later date. It seems that he and your father were good friends during the first war, and he'd like to tell you some more about him."

Peter remained silent and the General said, "I know, it's a lot to contemplate right now. Just think about it, okay?"

They arrived at Peter's temporary quarters and they both exited the staff car. General Hogan took his Air Attaché by the arm to steer him towards the door as he said, "Consider yourself officially on leave now. Go home tomorrow and spend the week with your family. I can take care of matters here. I'm sure Jo could use some help, especially considering she's expecting."

The General gently thumped Peter on the back as he asked, "How far along is she, anyway?"

"She's nearly seven months along and feelin' every bit of it!"

"Please give her my best regards and meet me back at the base next Monday morning."

Peter came to attention and saluted his commanding officer before extending his hand. "Thank you, sir! We both appreciate it!"

Now, as he traveled back to Newbury, these and all other sorts of memories washed over him as he pondered his new insights. The old patriotic tunes played during the Veterans March suddenly invaded his thoughts. _It's a Long, Long Way to Tipperary; Pack Up Your Troubles in Your Old Kit Bag and Smile, Smile, Smile; Keep the Home Fires Burning._ The playing of "The Last Post", which always ended the two minutes' silence, had brought him to unexpected tears. He massaged the side of his head thoughtfully and sighed.

Maybe, just maybe, he _would_ take the Brigadier up on his offer.


End file.
